The Return
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: [Discontinued] 1978. 11 years ago, the Ishin Shishi revolutionaries overthrew the corrupt Tokugawa regime and were recognised by the UN as the official Japanese government. Now a small, redheaded man returns after eleven years of wandering...
1. Default Chapter

A/N – Just floating an idea out, to see if it's plausible and if I should continue. This is an AU experiment in alternate history, and you should be able to recognize all the important dates and turning points. I'm not setting myself up as a rival to Harry Harrison, but I thought it would be interesting to try.

Disclaimer – Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Watsuki-san and all the others who got in before I could. Worst luck. I am merely putting my own twist on it.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

History Lesson: 

Ten years ago civil war tore the newly formed nation of Japan apart. The aftermath of the Second World War had led to a shift in popular perception against colonialism and the accumulation of empires, and so Britain, France and a number of other states had – with varying degrees of willingness – released their hold on their colonies, allowing them to finally regain control of their own destinies. In 1948, some eighty years after it had fallen, wracked and torn by weak leadership and internal conflict, into Western hands, Japan achieved independent nationhood – but only after a long, bloody struggle.

They had been devastated by the war, the raging conflict between Germany, Italy and the rest of the world that had spread even to the Far East. And then immediately afterwards, the fight for self-determination began – revolutionaries waging a guerilla campaign against the already exhausted colonial government. The problem was, of course, that there were many different factions from rival provinces joined in an uneasy coalition under one man, who took the surname of the legendary general as his nom de guerre. He became the first prime minister of Japan, claiming ultimate secular power for himself, and then set about eliminating the rest of his opponents and most of his erstwhile allies with terrifying ruthlessness.

But as the years passed, conditions in Japan worsened – the economy failed and the yen was all but worthless, famine and poverty were rampant, and Tokugawa's spies and soldiers were everywhere, crushing anything they saw as a threat – to the point where, in 1953, rebellion rose again, spearheaded by the province of Choshu. For fifteen more years, Japan was torn apart by violence and terror and the AK-47, as both sides grew more and more fanatical –

But the Choshu had a secret weapon, one guaranteed to strike fear and awe into the hearts of men. Assassins and hitokiri were employed in great numbers by either side, to eliminate key figures, to spread chaos and terror and to shatter morale, but in 1963 _the _hitokiri made his first appearance, his first kill a statement devastating, unmistakable, and terrifying.

Tenchuu.

In the twentieth century, guns were the chosen weapons of the revolutionary. Arms purchased with foreign aid, a steady stream of assistance from either the United States or the Soviet Union, designed to further their own game played out on a much larger board than this small, localized conflict. But in this age of semi-automatics, the unknown assassin carried his own, unique calling card –

He used a sword. Archaic, obsolete, and completely outdated, the psychological impact had nonetheless been devastating. He had terrorized his opponents and inspired in the rebels a kind of mythic awe – Battousai, they whispered, was not a mortal man but a demon, a bloody ghost, an avenging samurai spirit of legend come to dispense justice once more…

In late1967, at Toba Fushimi, the rebels finally gained the upper hand against the Tokugawa regime. It was only a matter of time, after that, before they pushed the revolution through to its conclusion and were recognized as the true government of Japan – Battousai's mysterious disappearance was interpreted as a sign that his task was finally done, leaving men to take control of their own affairs. If any knew or thought differently, then at least they kept their silence – the myth gave their men hope, and sapped the will and hearts of the enemy.

And so the truth of hitokiri Battousai's tale, if any had ever known it, was forever swallowed by legend; the only remaining evidence of him a bloodied katana thrust into the earth of Toba Fushimi, marking the end of the chaotic, bloody Bakumatsu and the beginning of the hope of Meiji.

* * *

1978 

He had always worked in the shadows. He had never operated in the light, out in the open where he could be seen and recognized; his distinctive features had made it too risky – even after he had become a bodyguard and a vanguard skirmisher – for him to take such a chance. Once seen and photographed, his face would be on file forever, and so would end the usefulness of the Ishin Shishi's best assassin, whether or not he had actively been working as such at the moment.

As a result, there were almost none who would ever recognise his face – he had left no witnesses, only a few enemies had survived meeting him, and only a select group of his superiors had ever seen him. There were no records, no photographs, no information on him anywhere – but he was recognized at the airport. He could feel it in the atmosphere, in the sidelong glances that skittered over him nervously, in the tension that was unwarranted when dealing with a small, delicate looking man who did a very convincing job of feigning charming eccentricity and haplessness. And that could mean only one thing – his own people were searching for him.

Only they knew what he looked like, and more importantly what he was.

Katsura-san had promised that he would be allowed to go his own way after the end, had sworn it on his own honour that he held second only to his dedication to sonno-joi. But Katsura-san was dead, now…

He was not a fool, and nor was he naïve – as some people seemed to believe went hand in hand with idealism. He knew what had befallen Shishio Makoto, once the man's usefulness had ended, and he had shown no signs of fitting into the new era. He knew how nervous he made certain people feel, either because of his skill with his weapons or because of the secrets he had created and then kept for them.

And that – just as much as his quest for atonement – was one of the reasons he had taken off so precipitously, to avoid giving the now-cautious members of the new government such a choice. They need not worry about him, and he was insulted that they would even think it so, but some men did not think of honour first, but of cold hard cash, and with a cynicism and ruthlessness that made his assassin's pragmatic mind seem naïve.

However, there was very little that could be done about the distinctiveness of his blazing red hair at the moment. His every instinct quivering, ready for anything, he walked with all the nonchalance he could muster past the armed security guards towards the door leading out into Tokyo. He could feel them watching him, feel the wariness in their ki, but they made no move, and as long as they held off, so too would he.

The days when the killing instinct had been so ingrained in him that it was his first choice were long gone – he had managed, through long days of wandering and the hypnotic meditation that came of walking, and walking, and walking, to suppress it, to train himself to react not with deadly skill but with puzzlement, with harmlessness and eccentricity. He could sleep without clutching his sword now, although he could not bear to have it out of his reach, or even out of sight. And he could walk past a line of potentially hostile armed men, and turn his back on them. But it went against every single instinct he had ever had…

And then came the voice, the voice that he had not heard for more than a decade, but which still had the power to scrape his nerves raw and bring every single killing instinct to the fore.

"Battousai," it said, with infinite certainty.

Kenshin stopped, in mid-stride, his hand quivering with the need to go to his weapon. But he controlled it – if he drew in here, it would all be over. That was what they wanted. He turned around, his best confused, uncomprehending expression pasted innocently onto his face, as if that could deny the evidence of the cruciform scar.

"Oro?"

The policeman – yes, a federal policeman – he had once known as Saitou Hajime did not look in the least amused, and nor, unfortunately, did he look any less certain of his identification. But then, Saitou had always had the wonderful gift of certainty, of righteousness. He wondered how Saitou had justified channeling that righteousness into serving the government that had deposed his former masters.

"Himura Battousai," the former captain of the Shinsengumi, the old Shogunate counter-terrorist squad confirmed. "It has been a long time since you have showed your face in Japan."

And behind Saitou, walking swiftly towards them but stopping at a suitably safe distance, were Yamagata Aritomo and Okubo Toshimichi, neither of whom was likely to be misled by the rurouni smile and mannerisms. So he dropped them. Resumed his normal reserve, and watched the guards' shocked faces – as if they had been told who he had once been, but had never truly believed it – and the satisfaction on Saitou's.

"Aa," he said flatly. "I had good reason." He looked towards Okubo as he said it, wondering if he could detect a flicker of self-consciousness – the man had always been a little wary of him – but, as always, a politician's mask had always been more deadly than an assassin's.

Had it not been for Katsura-san's guarantee, would he truly have been eliminated like Shishio?

"Then why did you come back?"

He said nothing – he was not going to explain himself to Saitou here in the middle of a crowded airport.

"Himura-san," Yamagata said, taking over from the blunt policeman, "we never had the chance to acknowledge all that you did for the Meiji government. Your loyal services deserve recognition; now that you have returned to Japan, we would like to offer you a post in the military…"

Kenshin searched his face, but could find nothing but sincerity. There was little left, now, of the intense revolutionary Yamagata had once been; he had cut his hair and grown a moustache, and was wearing a Western style military uniform, but the eyes were the same – the eyes of a man who had brought down an old, weak government and built something new from the ashes. But tearing down old governments was always easier than preserving new ones; Yamagata – and Okubo, for that matter – looked tired, and much older than ten years warranted. Cares weighed heavily on their shoulders, for he had no doubt that there had been challenges to the fledgling Meiji regime.

But he was no longer concerned with such matters.

"Yamagata-san," he said quietly, inclining his head, "I must respectfully decline. I did not look for advancement, and nor do I deserve it; I was nothing but an assassin."

"You were – and are – more than an assassin, Himura-san," Yamagata demurred quietly, almost regretfully. "You were a symbol. A weapon to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies, a symbol of the bloody birth of the new era…"

"As you say," Kenshin said, coldly now, his courtesy strained, "I was a symbol of the Bakumatsu. But the Bakumatsu is over, now, and the new era safely established – you do not need blood-soaked reminders of the past tainting the present. I am a wanderer now, nothing more, nothing less."

"A wanderer," Saitou scoffed. "And yet you still cannot bring yourself to go unarmed, and all the instincts are just as sharp as ever." It was true enough – even now, he had made sure his back was not exposed to the door, and that from where he stood he had a clear view and a clear escape route mapped out – but he ignored Saitou's taunting.

Once more, he inclined his head. "Yamagata-san, Okubo-san; I must apologise, but I cannot help you in this matter. I neither want nor deserve such honours."

They did not look pleased, but in this public place they could not dispute his decision. Faces impassive, they took their leave and strode out of the terminal, leaving Saitou and Kenshin behind.

"You should have accepted the post," the former Shinsengumi said, lighting up a cigarette.

"Oro?" The threat to his composure gone, he resumed his cheerful, innocent mask.

Saitou eyed him in dire disapproval, slowly exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Ten years ago, you timed your departure well. But now that you've returned – the government cannot afford to let the bloodiest killer and the most powerful symbol of the revolution out of its control. This was their first offer. There will be others, and offers will slowly become demands and then ultimatums…"

He knew it. But… "Why did you accept their offer then, Saitou?" he asked sweetly. "You, with your rigid principles – your _Aku Soku Zan; _surely_ you _did not buy safety in such a fashion?"

Saitou's narrowed golden eyes were ironic as he eyed the man who had once been his deadliest opponent. "Ah, but then I had no powerful patron to protect me. And I find I have become very pragmatic in this new era of prosperity and riches…"

"How did you know where I would be?" Kenshin asked abruptly, voicing the one question that truly unsettled him.

Saitou laughed harshly. "How do you think?" he demanded, tossing the butt down on the carpet and grinding it out, making Kenshin wince. "You don't think they'd ever let you of all people disappear without a trace…"

* * *

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Thanks to Crystal-Snowflakes, Fflur, Labeled Insane, Loise, Katrinka, Jewelle2 and t.a.g.o for your comments.

Just a reminder: The rebels aren't fighting the Tokugawa regime from the 1860s. In this story, the revolution/civil war weakened the country so much that in 1868, Japan fell to the West. After 80 years as a colony, they finally gained their independence in 1948 after 3 years of rebellion against the colonial administration. The first leader of the newly independent Japan was the rebel leader, who, to give himself more credibility, took Tokugawa as his _nom de guerre._ His rule proved disastrous, and in 1953 (1853 saw Commodore Perry's arrival) another rebellion began, led by the province of Choshu. Toba Fushimi was 1967.

Disclaimer – Rurouni Kenshin is the property of Watsuki-san and associated others.

* * *

The Return Chapter 2

* * *

Saitou Hajime watched the small, redheaded man walk away, his fake smile and mild eyes firmly in place. He remembered all too well the faceless shadow-killer of the Bakumatsu, the unseen wraith who had caused such chaos and terror with his old-fashioned weapons. There had been no photographs of him, no witness statements, no clue of who or what the shadow assassin was except men killed with almost surgical skill and the ever-present, anonymous statement of Tenchuu.

And that…mockery of a man was Battousai?

Himura Kenshin. A false name, on a forged certificate, registered in 1968 and signed by one of Katsura Kogoro's flunkies. He'd been Katsura's creature, of course, his weapon, unleashed on those who would not yield to his diplomacy.

Battousai must have been a child when Katsura recruited him – or Takasugi did, the wild-eyed, charismatic zealot – but at least, once he gained power, Katsura had protected his former hitokiri. His details had been buried so deep Saitou would never have found them if Okubo hadn't handed them to him personally.

Katsura was dead, and so was his promise that Battousai would never be called on again…

Very soon, they would all see what remained of the hitokiri, beneath the foolish mask.

* * *

Saitou's parting comment haunted him as he slipped silently and invisibly through the streets of what had once been Edo. If they were watching him – if, as Saitou said, he had been under surveillance for quite some time – then he would shake them off. No matter how good his watchers were, he was better; no one knew the shadows so intimately as a shadow killer.

The fading twilight was deceptive, shifting shadows and rising mist playing havoc with visibility. Kenshin made sure that he could pinpoint all six of his tails before he stepped casually into an alley and took to his heels. Muffled curses and whispered exclamations followed him, before the hunters remembered their discipline and organized themselves.

Lying pressed flat against a rooftop right above them, Kenshin watched as they split up into pairs to search the area, maintaining constant radio contact. Despite the situation, he found himself nodding in approval – the lessons of the Bakumatsu had been well learned. Before the bloody urban battles that had made Kyoto into a war zone, Japan had been unprepared for urban terrorism and street fighting on such a huge scale. During the early days in Kyoto, six policemen would have gone off individually to search, and he, the silent killer, would have picked them off, one by one by one, without raising an alarm.

Eventually the Shinsengumi – the elite anti-terrorist unit – was created, and the police and the government troops learned to devise tactics to counter the rebels' advantages. Now, watching the way his followers moved, he knew that an average assassin or gunman would have a hard time eluding their net –

But he was no average assassin.

He was – had been – the deadliest killer of the Bakumatsu. He was not proud of it, but his skills were so much a part of him that there was no need for ego. He knew there were very, very few out there who could ever have matched him, or who could match him now even after he'd lost his edge.

_A sword is a weapon. Kenjutsu is the art of killing. _

Even in these days of guns and bombs.

There was silence, now, from the watchers – he could feel their ki moving stealthily some blocks away to the west – and, congratulating himself, he jumped lightly down from the roof. Straightening himself up, he stepped out of the alley and back onto the main street, walking as innocently as he could, deliberately scuffing his feet and projecting harmlessness and amiability. Soon, he lost himself in the nighttime crowd and left his followers searching fruitlessly behind him.

It had been some thirteen years since he'd last set foot in this city. Back then, it had been a bustling port, a mixture of traditional Japanese and colonial Western buildings, and it had lacked the old, formal elegance of Kyoto. He hadn't had much time for sightseeing – he'd arrived in the late afternoon, completed his assassination at midnight, and had been on his way back immediately after – but he distinctly recalled that there had been few buildings of more than two or three stories.

Now there were steel and glass skyscrapers, modern business places, banks and hotels crowding into what must be the city centre, all clustered around the ultra-modern steel and glass building of the Tokyo Stock Exchange.

How quickly and closely Japan had once more become entwined with the West, in the thirty years since they had thrown off its yoke. Aid, foreign investment, tourism – for all of these and more, the Meiji government had whitewashed its terrorist past, casting off veterans who could not adapt to the new era, eliminating those who would not…

Kenshin turned away from the future, wandering aimlessly, until he heard the unmistakable rhythmic sounds of clacking shinai and the thump of deliberate footwork, and found himself face to face with a sign advertising the Kamiya Dojo, home of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu.

* * *

Kamiya Kaoru, assistant master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu, watched her one, single student go through his kata. Briefly, she thought of the days when her father had been the master, and there had been many students willing and eager to learn from him –

But those days were long gone. Her father had left to fight with Saigo Takamori and had never returned, and now she was left with an empty dojo, an all but student-less school, and her father's ideals. Happily, she owned the dojo outright – she was spared the added worry of a mountain of debts and mortgages. There would have been no way to pay them: teaching kendo was simply not profitable these days. Moreover, the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu was not one of the more traditional, well-known kendo schools either – it was obscure and unusual and hardly anybody had ever heard of it.

However, at the moment, she did have a student and she would give him the benefit of her full attention and time.

"Yahiko!" she scolded, "you're following the stroke through past the finish point. You can't afford to be that sloppy in a real fight."

Yahiko scowled fiercely at her. "I know that, ugly! But I've done nearly nine hundred of these in a row – my arms are getting tired."

Kaoru glowered at him. "That's no excuse. If you want I can give you a thousand more."

The situation looked set to deteriorate into the usual round of insults and name-calling, until Kaoru and Yahiko became aware that there was another presence in the dojo. Kaoru tensed, and Yahiko squared up to the shadow and took a guard position. Kaoru noted – with absent pride – that his form was perfect; but she stepped in front of him and called out to the unknown presence.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Maa, maa," spoke a cheerful, laughing voice. "I'm sorry, but I saw the sign and I heard you training; it has been a while since I have been in a real dojo."

As she watched, the voice's owner came out of the shadows, a small, red haired man smiling amiably, holding his arms out to show that he had no weapons, and he meant no harm.

"You practice kendo?" Yahiko asked doubtfully, having pushed his way clear of Kaoru. "You don't look like you do," he said with his usual tact.

However, Kaoru looked further, and saw that although he had his arms out to his sides, he did indeed have a weapon – he was dressed in dusty grey-black pants and shirt, with a long concealing coat, but the coat fell irregularly on his left side, outlining a long, slim object…

A sword?

"I had some skill once," he said self-deprecatingly, with a sad, sweet smile, "a long time ago."

Yahiko lost interest in the stranger, not looking any further than the humble manner and the old, battered clothing. He went back to his strokes, leaving Kaoru alone with the stranger, who watched Yahiko's form through absently narrowed eyes.

"He's just a little off-balance, isn't he?" Kaoru said conversationally.

Just before he nodded in agreement, the stranger caught himself up with a comical sound and widened eyes. "Oro?"

"Who _are _you?" she demanded. "You're a skilled swordsman, I'd swear it, but I thought I knew all the best kendo practitioners in Japan. And why do you carry a sword?"

In the face of her suspicious scowl, the stranger abandoned the foolish act, lowering his head and veiling his eyes with his hair. "Himura Kenshin," he introduced himself humbly. "I am a wanderer, nothing more."

"A wanderer with a sword," she said flatly.

He would not meet her eyes. "Hai. That is so."

It was not in Kaoru to be needlessly cruel, especially to those who had no defenses of their own. She could sense the vulnerability in this Himura Kenshin, and cursed the soft heart and impulsiveness that so often led her into trouble.

"I am Kamiya Kaoru," she said, a peace offering. "I'm the assistant master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu, and the owner of this dojo." She paused, cursing herself, but knew that she would do it anyway. "You look like you need a place to stay."

His eyes widened, and for the first time met hers squarely. They were an improbable violet, but she saw no malice in them, no greed or ugliness, only an ancient and terrible grief. He protested, of course, but Kaoru was stubborn and eventually won him over. She informed Yahiko, who replied with a grunt and a scowl, before turning back to his practice, and then took her new house-guest to see his new room.

Just before she left him at his door, bedding at his feet, she could not resist one last question, half in jest. "Himura-san? Your sword – have you ever killed anyone with it?" Perhaps she was just ensuring that he was not a cold-blooded murderer, come to murder herself and Yahiko in their sleep.

She thought she saw his eyes flicker. But he only unbuttoned the long, enveloping coat, revealing a (a katana! A real katana) attached to his belt. He drew it, still sheathed, and extended it to her hilt first. She frowned, puzzled by the odd wrongness of the sheath, and then, drawing it part of the way free, realized –

"The blade is reversed!" she exclaimed, puzzled. "The sharp edge is on the wrong side…"

"Yes," he said, subdued. "It is not a killing blade. I have never killed anyone with this sword."

She did not comment on the strange wording of that statement. Her new houseguest was strange enough as it was. "Then why do you carry it?"

But, occupied by resheathing and replacing the blade at his waist, he did not answer her.

She did not press the issue.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – a look into Kenshin's revolutionary past. I would say terrorist, but the 't' word is anathema these days; let us say, rather, revolutionary, patriot, or freedom fighter.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. I'd like Katsura or Takasugi for my own, but given they're more than a century dead I'll have to be realistic. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

"_Rather than the wild-eyed fanatics or crazed killers that we have been conditioned to accept, many are in fact highly articulate and extremely thoughtful individuals for whom terrorism is (or was) an entirely rational choice…"_

_Bruce Hoffman, 'Inside Terrorism'. _

* * *

1963

Katsura Kogoro was a rational, civilised man. He considered himself a gentleman, a man of taste and refinement, but he was also a man with a purpose. He had a mission, a goal, and he was prepared to do anything, to use anyone, to stop at absolutely nothing to see _sonno joi _succeed.

As Yoshida-sensei had said, (before they crushed him to death during the worst of the proscriptions in '59), sometimes there was a need for madness and destruction, if justice and right were to prevail. To that end, he had joined with Takasugi Shinsaku – a zealot, an audacious, charismatic fanatic, but most importantly one of Yoshida-sensei's protégés – and together they laid the foundations for the Choshu Ishin Shishi.

Katsura played political games, garnering support and influence, while Takasugi created and armed his phantom guerilla forces with foreign aid and foreign arms. Eventually the Choshu revolutionaries gained influence in Hagi, the Choshu capital; but more importantly, they grew in standing at the Imperial Court in Kyoto. Their championing of the Emperor's cause gained them favour, and their ruthless elimination of any who stood against them gained them both publicity and fear.

The stark, visceral message of _tenchuu _left behind at every assassination and act of violence was a nationally recognised symbol now; even stringent media censorship could not prevent it from becoming almost a household name. The whole of Japan and a good deal of the world knew of the Ishin Shishi and their crusade – freedom fighters, revolutionaries or terrorists, at least they were getting their message across.

Any publicity was good publicity. And Katsura was a master spin-doctor…

* * *

The continued success and effectiveness of Takasugi's guerilla Kihetai relied on their ability to move swiftly and freely throughout the countryside, and on their ability to blend in and merge with the greater population – like, as Mao said, fish swimming in the sea. They relied on the common people of the land for support and recruitment; the poor peasants of Japan, denied their basic rights for so long, were ripe for rebellion. Especially after a few victories showed them that their modern weapons and new tactics far outstripped the tired, old-fashioned bakufu army.

Soon men and boys were streaming in from all corners of the province, hoping to join the revolution. Takasugi took all comers, forging raw recruits into seasoned guerillas, sending the more promising candidates on to Katsura in Kyoto – but every now and then he uncovered a gem…

Like this boy.

A young, almost painfully callow and naïve boy, fresh out of the backwoods; a boy who had come to them with a _sword, _of all things. A boy whose dream was to 'help the people', and who wanted it badly enough to set the whole world on fire…

"Well, old friend," Katsura said, sleek and cool in his tailored suit and polished dress shoes. "What was it you wanted to show me?"

His partner looked ridiculously out of place in his urban style out here in the mud and dirt of the field, but it would not do to underestimate him. Takasugi, unshaven and dressed in camouflage army surplus, his long hair held back with a grubby bandana, made up the other side of the Choshu revolutionaries.

"Not what," he said. "Who. Look there – the boy, the redhead. Watch him." He pointed out the young swordsman, surrounded by a group of fascinated spectators, all of them half-drunk on the samurai fables of the past. While they watched enthralled, he crouched, his hand going to the sword sheathed at his waist, and then in a move too blindingly fast to be seen he drew in a shining arc of light –

Sand spilt in a trickle, and then a river, and then a flood from the canvas covered punching bag lowered specifically to be the boy's target. And then, before their very eyes, it slumped inwards and the top half separated from the lower, toppling majestically and revealing the line of the boy's cut – perfect, razor-sharp, it had severed the thick, heavy bag into complete halves.

The boy held his pose for a while, his follow-through classic Kurosawa, and then he bowed slightly and sheathed his sword. Driven by some instinct, he turned towards the hill to face the two revolutionary leaders watching in fascinated awe –

Katsura knew the power of the samurai myth.

"Who is he?" he breathed, his pulse pounding and eyes widened despite his famous cool. "Tell me that he's not a ghost, Takasugi."

"Himura Kenshin," Takasugi said in some satisfaction. "He wants to make the world a better place, and is willing to use his sword to further the cause of the Ishin Shishi…"

* * *

Himura Kenshin was barely fourteen years old.

Once, Katsura might have hesitated to involve such a young boy in his fight, but he'd been fighting the Tokugawa for years now; so many had died and so much loss and destruction had occurred that he could not afford to indulge in useless regrets. To let an incredible opportunity slip through his fingers because the boy was barely old enough to understand what his idealism would cost him…

He would not let all those sacrifices be in vain.

"Takasugi-san said you wanted to see me," the boy said, his eyes wide and painfully eager.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Will you sit?" He knelt down on the tatami, noting the boy's incredible grace and balance. He handled that sword as if it were part of him. "My name," he began, "is Katsura Kogoro. I lead the Choshu Ishin Shishi in Kyoto, at the Imperial Court."

The boy nodded.

"There are many facets to the revolution, Himura; military, political, and psychological. The Kihetai are our military wing, striking at the bakufu's army like stinging gnats. I, and others like me, am the political force, trying to win the Emperor's favour while advancing his cause over the Prime Minister's in the government. And the third element, the psychological…"

He paused, trying to gauge how much of it the boy understood.

"Tokugawa has stayed in power for so long because he rules with an iron fist. Powerful administrators fear to cross him, and so they fear to rise up against him. We must take that terror away from him, and use it for our own purposes – we must make the administrators and our opponents fear _us. _Do you see? We must take the momentum upon ourselves. And for that," he said, leaning closer, turning on the charisma that served him so well as a leader, "we need you, Himura."

The boy's eyes widened and he pressed on, sensing capitulation. "There are those who oppose us who will not be intimidated. We must eliminate them, _kill _them, to send a message to those who waver, or to anyone who thinks of standing against us. And we must kill them in a way that will strike terror into the hearts of our opponents."

"Kill them?" the boy asked, shivering.

"Yes. You have heard of _tenchuu?_" Himura nodded. "In invoking divine justice, we must show that it comes from a great and terrible source…"

"Me," the boy said, solemn now, understanding what Katsura asked of him.

"Yes," he said gently. "You. Use your sword to spread justice, to bring about a newer, better world – Himura, I'm asking you to spearhead the revolution in Kyoto, to bring down the old government and build a better one in its place."

The boy – Himura – lowered his eyes and thought for a moment, his hand resting on his sheathed sword. Katsura watched him, aware of a gripping tension, a need to secure this boy and his sword, his incredible, myth-making sword. Then Himura raised his head and met Katsura's eyes, his own innocent ones firm with faith and determination and a burning need to prove himself.

"If, by my sword, I can bring about a new era, then yes, Katsura-san, I will kill for you."

Staring into those incredibly young and idealistic eyes, Katsura almost hesitated. Unlike other, more experienced men who understood the consequences of volunteering to be used, Himura's faith in truth and justice was unsullied. But then Katsura remembered his purpose, remembered the madness of true justice, and hardened his heart. He would use this boy as he used everything he could, even himself.

However, he suspected that he would always be haunted by the weight of the expectations in those innocent, terrifying eyes…

* * *

A/N – Takasugi as flamboyant guerilla leader _a la_ Che, and Katsura as the political wizard, rather like Gerry Adams. Poor naïve Kenshin didn't have a chance.

Yoshida Shoin was a radical left-wing teacher executed (pressed to death) in the Ansei Purge for plotting against the shogun in 1859. Among his students were Okubo Toshimichi and Takasugi Shinsaku.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – This chapter introduces Shishio, because he's so wonderfully, megalomaniacally evil. And because I love Soujiro.

Also, because Nondescript White Van mentioned it and because it tickled my fancy immensely, I have included Sano-with-a-'fro. All complaints and outrage should be sent (her?) way, not mine.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 4

* * *

"_Ne, Shishio-san," the young, smiling killer said. "Why are you smiling?"_

_His face scarred, twisted, and horribly burned, Shishio Makoto smiled grotesquely. "Hitokiri Battousai has come back to Japan, Souji. He was spotted at Narita airport, before he disappeared into Tokyo."_

"_Hitokiri Battousai?" Seta Soujiro did not doubt Shishio's network of informants, which reached into the very highest levels of government officialdom. "All the stories say he vanished after Toba Fushimi. I'd always assumed the Meiji government…" he trailed off, tactfully not finishing the sentence. _

"_No, my predecessor managed to escape my fate. He fled, became a rurouni, not connected to anyone in the government – until Okubo and Yamagata confronted him."_

"_Did they manage to recruit him, Shishio-san?" There was eagerness in Soujiro's voice, the arrogance of a young swordsman excited by the thought of facing a legend. "Will he come against us?"_

"_They did not succeed in their first meeting." The muscles in Shishio's face contorted in another smile. "But either they will convince him, or we will – sooner or later, Battousai will be persuaded to oppose us. And then, when we destroy the Meiji government's last and greatest hope…"_

_The fierce, burning anticipation in Shishio's eyes was terrible to behold. For years, since his own masters had betrayed him, he had been biding his time, waiting for revenge. Soon, very soon, his time would come…_

* * *

He had only intended to stay the night. Long experience had taught him that it was best to keep moving, never stay in one spot for too long – even outside Japan, in places where nobody had ever heard of hitokiri Battousai, he seemed to draw trouble like a magnet.

He smelled too much of blood, even after eleven years. In this world of violence, turmoil and war, there were far too many who could recognize it –

Even without Saitou's warning, Yamagata had been too desperate to secure his loyalty.

However, Kaoru-dono (unconsciously, he gave her the honorifics he denied the highest government ministers) was hard to deny. Despite his misgivings, he had been persuaded to stay longer – one night had stretched into two nights, and two nights and a day until now, two weeks after his arrival…

There was a small, run down garden behind the house: white sand, crushed gravel, a small pool with two or three old carp, and a stunted sakura tree. The morning air was cold, clear, and gloriously still, and if he closed his eyes and concentrated, blocking out the faint sounds of construction and traffic, he could almost imagine himself back on the mountain with his shishou.

Back to a time before death, chaos and blood.

It was a good place, this household. The founding principles of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu were not just words to them, as he had seen in other dojos in his time – here, they truly believed that a sword could protect life and foster potential.

Small, padding footsteps sounded from within the house. Kenshin controlled the automatic reaction to anyone coming up behind him, and let the boy approach him and stand by his side.

"Kenshin?" Yahiko yawned, his hair still wild and disheveled. "What are you doing up so early?"

"It is seven-thirty, Yahiko," he answered, as blandly as he could.

"Like I said," Yahiko grinned widely. "Early."

Kenshin shook his head, smiling. That even a poor orphan like Yahiko had the freedom to sleep late, because he was on holidays from school – that he could go to school at all – was one of the wonders of this new era. When he himself had been eleven years old…

Well, that was another time, another world.

"I'm used to rising with the sun," he said, turning his face up and smiling. "I've made breakfast for you and Kaoru-dono."

Yahiko looked at him dubiously. In many ways, he was worldlier than Kaoru-dono; he'd never said anything about his past, but Kenshin suspected that violence and tragedy lay in his past, behind that boyish bravado and fierce black eyes. Kaoru-dono had seen him as a swordsman immediately, because that was where her particular expertise lay –

After a few days, Yahiko had seen him as a killer. And that was what made Kenshin worry about his past…

"It's almost like you _enjoy _doing housework, Kenshin," the boy said, probing. But Kenshin only smiled, that rueful, self-deprecating grin that had served him so well for so long.

"Ah, well," he said, scratching his head and laughing. "There are worse things."

* * *

After breakfast, Kaoru-dono went out to teach at another dojo across town, and Yahiko retired to their own dojo with his bokken for his daily exercises. Sitting idly, watching him repeat the fundamental moves over and over again, Kenshin remembered his own days of endless, driven practice and boundless, stubborn determination.

Gods, he must have been painfully naïve…

The Western overlords had stripped the samurai of their arms, suppressing the largest, most popular schools of swordsmanship, and the advent of guns and modern artillery had rendered traditional weapons obsolete. But there were some parts of Japan where modernization and the twentieth century held little sway – in the small, farming village that was Kenshin's birthplace, there was very little difference between this century and the last three.

Subsistence farming, cholera, slavers and bandits and a huge, white caped master swordsman; these were the formational elements of his youth. He'd known hunger, fear and hardship, but he'd never been to a town larger than one hundred people. He'd known of poverty, violence and oppression but he'd never seen an automobile, or watched a movie, and he knew nothing of the _details _of the world beyond his shishou's mountain.

Like Yahiko, the sword had given him a sense of identity. Unlike Yahiko, he'd known very, very little about the practicalities of using that sword in the modern world…

A bright, brash ki and a cheerful shout of "Oi!" drew his attention to the arrival of a stranger at the dojo gates. He stood up swiftly, hand falling automatically to his sakabatou, but Yahiko threw down his bokken and shouted exuberantly.

"Sano!" he cried, running out to greet the newcomer. "I haven't seen you around for weeks! Did you get a job or something?"

That last was sneered, and Kenshin noted the cocky stance, the puffed-out chest. So, Yahiko admired this Sano, did he? And would die before he let the man know it.

"A job!" 'Sano' sputtered, his voice outraged. "Why, you…" Growling and the sounds of a scuffle followed, and Kenshin finally got a good look at the stranger.

A street tough. A bravo.

Tall, thin, proudly wearing an ancient, tattered jacket and too-short pants, he had bandages wrapped around his hands – a bare-knuckle brawler, then – and a most unusual hairstyle. Kenshin had seen hairstyles like that on black men and boys in American TV shows, and they had all walked with the same swagger, the same sense of 'cool'. He only hoped that this Sano had not copied their way of speech…

Finally, Sano managed to tuck Yahiko under his arm and rub his knuckles unmercifully over the boy's head. "I've been hiding out," he sneered proudly. "Lost a bit too much money to the wrong guys – it took tracking down their leader and pounding him into a pulp to make them see sense."

He looked up, grinning, and saw Kenshin. Immediately he stiffened, his arm tightening protectively around Yahiko, who sputtered and swore and then, scowling, wriggled hard enough that Sano set him on his feet.

"SA-no!" he growled, tugging furiously at his clothes to set them right. "This is Kenshin. Himura Kenshin. He's staying with us for a little while."

"Himura Kenshin, eh?" Sharp, insolent dark eyes studied him with outright suspicion. Kenshin did his best to look harmless, but there was only so much he could do to negate the black-sheathed sword by his side.

Reading the tension and the suspicion, Yahiko jumped in. "Kenshin, this is Sagara Sanosuke, professional loafer and freeloader."

Kenshin put on his goofiest smile and bowed. Sano grunted and only nodded in response, his eyes still watchful, and Kenshin sighed. He had not managed to disarm him.

"Did Jou-chan invite you to stay?" Sano asked.

Jou-chan? Oh.

"Yes," he said, still smiling foolishly. "Kaoru-dono was gracious enough to let me stay. Did you want to talk to her? She's gone to the Maekawa dojo. Please, come in and wait until she returns – I will make lunch for us."

As he'd thought, the thought of food – and of keeping an eye on him – slightly mollified the hotheaded, too skinny brawler. "I'll wait until Jou-chan comes back," he said with magnificent condescension, "and then I'll have a talk with her about letting perfect strangers armed with swords stay at her house." He sauntered past Kenshin and Yahiko into the house, hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

Kenshin watched him go, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the faded kanji on the back of his jacket.

* * *

A/N – Thanks to all those who reviewed the previous chapters. Feedback of all kinds is greatly appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N – **With a few strokes of my keyboard, this chapter sees a return to Sano's familiar rooster-esque haircut. The 'fro has served its purpose, I think. Also eliminated by my authorial authority is the zanbatou, which I have always thought utterly ridiculous, even by RK's standards.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"So." The untidy young gangster scowled at Kenshin, pointing his chopsticks suspiciously. "What's with the sword?"

Kenshin blinked, put down his bowl of rice. For a moment, he wondered if he could get away with a goofy 'what, this?' look down at his sakabatou, but those black eyes were too penetrating.

What could he say? That he enjoyed historical re-enactment? That he thought carrying a sword would make him look tough?

Perhaps he could get away with the former, but Kenshin had never had the type of insecure, bravado-driven arrogance for the latter. What had he been thinking, to wear his sword so openly? He'd been seduced by Kaoru-dono's unquestioning acceptance, by Yahiko's eagerness and enthusiasm.

"I am a swordsman," he said simply. "I carry a sword."

"Got a permit for it?" Sagara sneered.

But Kenshin only smiled. "Yes." Katsura-san had arranged one for him. It allowed him to both own and carry the traditional Japanese blades – but still, he was reluctant to be found in a position where he had to display it. Memories of hitokiri Battousai were still strong; it would raise too many questions.

Sagara scowled, thwarted, but Yahiko, his mouth full, chipped in enthusiastically. "A permit? Wow, they're really hard to get. Busu's father had to get a permit for this dojo; she said he had to apply to a very high government Minister!"

"Huh." Sagara looked him up and down, noting his old, patched clothing and his air of general neglect. "You don't look like a man to have a Minister's favour."

Kenshin wondered how much he knew, or suspected. Would he understand? That character on his back…

"Ten years ago," he said quietly, meeting Sagara's eyes squarely, "Katsura-san was not a high Minister."

"Katsura-san? You were Ishin Shishi?" Those sharp black eyes narrowed even further. "An Ishin Shishi swordsman…" he trailed off. "Don't tell me…"

"Don't tell you what?" Kaoru asked cheerfully, shouldering the screen open, her bokken and sweaty clothes in slung jauntily over her shoulder. "Sano, you freeloader – have you come to taste Kenshin's cooking?"

Sagara was momentarily diverted. "Oi! Jou-chan!" He glared at her, and then remembered himself and transferred his glare to Kenshin. "Who is this guy? You can't just take home every stray you meet. Do you even know who he is?"

"Of course I know!" she flared back at him. "His name is Himura Kenshin. He's a swordsman."

"Oh, he's a lot more than a swordsman, Jou-chan. He's an old revolutionary. He's –"

Quite deliberately, Kaoru cut him off. "You were a revolutionary?" she asked Kenshin, wide-eyed. "An Ishin Shishi?"

Carefully avoiding both hers and Sagara's eyes, Kenshin bowed his head. "Yes, I was a revolutionary, once. But that was a long time ago."

"There, you see, Sano?" Kaoru said defiantly. "It's been nearly eleven years since the end of the Revolution – whatever he was before, he's different, now." Her gaze shifted to Kenshin's face. "I don't care about people's pasts," she said with steady conviction, "I care about who they are now. No matter what you were before, Kenshin, you'll be welcome here as long as you wish to stay."

There was a moment of silence. Kenshin stared at Kaoru for a long, long time, his eyes wide, deep violet, and quite unreadable. Kaoru met them steadily, flushing just a little. "Arigatou gozaimasu, Kaoru-dono," he said, with a deep, respectful bow. His fingertips dropped lightly to the hilt of his sword, only just touching it –

An affirmation. A vow.

A promise.

* * *

Later that afternoon, once Sano had gone, Kaoru watched Kenshin hang the washing out underneath the porch, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he handled shirts, pants and pegs all at once. She thought of Sano's words, his questions – Kenshin didn't look like a revolutionary, but nor did he look like a swordsman. And in the last few weeks, Kaoru had come to understand that under his unassuming humility, Kenshin had all the hallmarks of a very good swordsman indeed…

"What was Sano trying to say, Kenshin?" she asked abruptly.

His arms stretched above his head as he pegged a shirt into place, Kenshin froze for a moment; she saw the muscles in his back bunch and flex under his shirt, before he consciously forced himself to relax.

"Sanosuke is very protective of you, Kaoru-dono," he said quietly, still with his back to her. "He only wishes to keep you safe."

How many other men, she thought, would make apologies in such a situation?

"Are you so dangerous?" A tenuous, elusive connection drifted through her mind, teasing her – an Ishin Shishi, skilled with a sword?

He turned then, and some trick of the light threw his eyes into shadow; for a frozen heartbeat, it seemed as though they were cold, feral amber –

Then he laughed, and the illusion vanished.

"Not to you, Kaoru-dono. Never to you."

* * *

However, Kenshin knew that the young, brash street fighter would not be so easily put off, no matter what Kaoru-dono said. For some reason, Sagara hated and distrusted the Ishin Shishi, and had transferred all of his dislike to Kenshin. Well enough. He was willing to bet the young man's grievance was genuine; there was no deception in him, no artifice. Unlike Kenshin, Sagara hid nothing of what he was.

It was late at night, and he was standing outside, leaning against the dojo's gates. The moon was full, bright light illuminating him – he could easily have faded into the shadows, hiding himself, but that was not his intention. If Sagara wished to challenge him, he would allow it –

"Hitokiri Battousai," he heard the deep, careless voice say. "I almost didn't believe it…"

He turned to face the young gangster, inclined his head. "Yes. Once, I was known by that name."

Sagara's fists clenched. "The Ishin Shishi's strongest fighter. Their deadliest weapon. The Butcher of the Bakumatsu –"

Kenshin winced, but inclined his head again, his long hair falling over his eyes. It was all true. None of it could be denied, only justified by the continuing prosperity and success of the Meiji era. Such as it was.

"Is your grievance against me, Sagara, or the Ishin Shishi? Why do you wear that character so proudly on your jacket?"

"A grievance?" Sagara exploded. "You goddamn hypocritical Imperialists destroyed my entire life and you call it a grievance? Yes," he snarled, stalking up to Kenshin and gripping his shirt tightly, "you could say I have a _grievance_ against the fucking Ishin Shishi."

Dragged up onto his tiptoes by Sagara's strong grip, Kenshin reached out and grabbed his wrist, trying to release the pressure; however, Sagara was lost in his own anger and hatred. As he snarled and swore, he shook Kenshin like a rat –

At least he tried to, before Kenshin dug his fingers into a pressure point, pinching a nerve. His fingers spasmed, and Kenshin broke his grip; twisting away, he took a few steps back and stood, considering the young man thoughtfully.

"Sagara," he mused. "I have heard that name before. Surely…" he frowned, remembering an old, unsavoury story of deception and betrayal, and Katsura-san's displeasure. "Sagara Souzo, of the Sekihoutai – you are a relation?"

Sagara stared at him, his eyes wide, dark and full of wild, reckless hatred. "He was my Captain!" he shouted angrily. "And you fucking hypocrites betrayed and killed him. He believed your promises, and you killed him because he was inconvenient –"

"And you believe that avenging him will assuage that betrayal," Kenshin said softly. "That by killing me, you would bring honour to him even now, more than ten years after his death."

"Yes!" Sagara hissed, and then swung. Kenshin dodged, but he felt the raw power and strength in the punch, knew that if it had connected, he would have been in trouble. Sagara growled and swung again, and once more Kenshin dodged, sidestepping; the blows were powerful but they lacked discipline, and Kenshin managed to evade them with relative ease.

"Stand still, damn you!" Sagara shouted, charging wildly; Kenshin, fearful that the noise would wake Kaoru-dono, sidestepped and gave himself enough space to draw his sword.

The ringing, metallic "shiiick" carried shockingly well in the clear night air, distinct even above the grunting and shuffling of a one-sided fistfight. Sagara froze. During the Revolution, he would have used that frozen shock to his advantage, advancing on his prey with terrifying purpose, using shadow and light to make himself taller and more menacing.

Now, he simply launched himself skyward, jumping up into the light, coming down out of the sky like a striking hawk. He brought his sakabatou down with all the force and momentum of his leap behind it; slowly, Sagara collapsed to his knees, clutching his shattered collarbone, his face white and drawn.

"Go ahead then," the young man ground out defiantly, "kill me. Kill me like you killed Captain Sagara…"

Kenshin stood over him, watching him and wondering at his mad, reckless courage. "No," he said, smoothly sheathing his sword. "I am no longer a hitokiri. This is no longer the Revolution. This is a new era – the new era your Captain fought so hard to bring about. He would not want this…"

"How would you know," Sagara panted, his voice accusing, "what he would have wanted?"

Kenshin smiled sadly. And then he turned and walked away, leaving the young man crouching alone amidst the ruins of his past.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

A/N – Inspiration struck. 'The Return' gets another chance at life.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Watsuki-san et al beat me to it.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

* * *

He felt the shadows before he saw them; six hidden watchers, their focus intent and fixed on his every movement. It was not the first time in the last few months that he'd felt eyes on him, felt someone watching him – but he was an ordinary citizen now, concerned only with the small, everyday pleasures of an ordinary life. He was no longer a hitokiri, and he was no longer a pawn. He had every right to go about his business.

Giving no sign that he'd noticed the watchers he continued on his way, shuffling towards the market to buy Kaoru-dono's tofu, blending in with the early morning shoppers and street life. In this part of the city, far from the CBD or any important government buildings, the crowd was more bohemian in outlook and makeup, and a redheaded man with a sword stood out far less than he would in conventional Tokyo. Slowly, out of the corner of his eye, he began to pick them out: there, on the rooftop, a sniper, crouching low against the skyline. And there, in the overhanging windows, peeking through lacy Western curtains. There were two of them trailing behind him, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd, and another further away, high up, probably watching through binoculars.

And the last man, the most dangerous of them all, his ki focused and intent, was waiting for him openly in an alley, smoking.

* * *

He did not even try to hide; he knew from bitter experience that Battousai was ki-sensitive. When the unlikely figure came into sight, he tossed down his cigarette and ground it out with his old, scuffed shoes.

"Five long, bloody years I hunted for you," he said darkly. "You were like a ghost, invisible, untraceable, vanishing into the night leaving only your dead – and now here you are, walking to the market in broad daylight for everyone to see."

"It's best to go in the morning," said the most dangerous assassin of the Bakumatsu, "while the best goods are still fresh."

Saito sneered. "So you take the woman's part while your landlady plays the man."

There were two barbs to that comment. If he had expected to draw blood with either of them, he was disappointed. Himura smiled, a particularly empty smile that revealed nothing, despite its apparent rueful sadness. "Ah, well. Kaoru-dono _is_ the one who earns the money. I have no marketable skills."

"There are men and organizations who would pay _millions _for your particular skills," he said dryly. "When you left Japan, you could have named your price."

"No." Himura shook his head. "I did not fight for money."

"You fought for trade agreements with the West and loans from the IMF. How is that any different?"

For the first time, something broke through that cheerful façade. "What do you want, Saito?"

Deliberately, he drew another cigarette out of his packet and lit it, taking his time, drawing out the tension. "I want to know if you are still hitokiri Battousai, underneath that ridiculous pretence of meekness."

A crooked, quizzical smile. "Hitokiri Battousai was a myth, a symbol. Katsura-san created him –"

"But the Ishin deliberately refrained from destroying it. They did not intend to let you go, did they, Battousai? That was why you left after Toba Fushimi."

Himura paused, his eyes dark and strangely cynical. Idealistic he may once have been, but he was no fool.

"Katsura protected you once," Saito warned, "but he is dead. To the rest of them, you are a tool, a pawn in their endless manoeuvring for power and influence. If you wanted to be left alone, you should not have come back."

"I could not stay away." Once again, Himura smiled; sad, rueful, charming. "I gave up so much for my dream of Japan. Surely I've earned the right to enjoy it."

Saito only laughed.

* * *

"Okubo-sama." The aide bowed low, his eyes troubled as he joined the Minister in the Tokyo Metropolitan Chief of Police's office. "Fujita has made contact with the target."

"Hmm," Okubo said, remembering the meeting with Himura six months ago. He'd looked older, more worn, but with a deeper foundation of calm and maturity, rather than the dangerous, blank impassivity of the Bakumatsu.

"Do you wish to hear their conversation, Minister?" the aide asked earnestly. "Uramura-san says that the quality of sound through the wire is very good."

"Yes. Thank you, Noda." Turning away from his memories, Okubo followed the aide to the electronics division, where Uramura was listening to the conversation between Himura and Fujita-Saito.

Saito's dark, sardonic voice spoke._ "Your very presence stirs up speculation and interest, Battousai. You and I, we were not made for a quiet life." _

"_No," _said a lighter, but no less authoritative tone._ "I have found peace, here –"_

"_Wherever you go, you bring trouble. Yes, you have found a home here, but you have also brought the girl and her dojo to the attention of men who mean them nothing but harm. Do you honestly believe that the Meiji era is secure and enlightened, free from corruption and threat?"_

Beside him, Uramura could not meet Okubo's eyes.

"_What are you saying, Saito?" _

"_I'm saying that there are forces you know nothing about –"_

"_Say it!" _Himura hissed, his voice filled with sudden force Okubo remembered the stark, dangerous power of Himura's blade, the fundamentalist justice he had dispensed so mercilessly. But, unlike Saito, he had never judged his own -

"_Do you think that the remnants of the Bakumatsu suddenly vanished when the Emperor's sun rose ten years ago? Not all of the Ishin Shishi's secrets were as easily covered up as you were. Some of them – less benign than you – had to be eliminated."_

The conversation was beginning to verge on dangerous territory, and Uramura knew it. His eyes were wide and uncertain as he looked to Okubo for direction. "Stay," Okubo said curtly. "You will need to hear this."

Saito continued. _"But the new government's attempts to whitewash its past were not entirely successful. One of the deadliest and most ambitious assassins survived, and is looking for revenge…"_

Uramura looked alarmed.

"_Conspiracy theories. Left-wing propaganda."_ But Himura's voice, though scornful, was not wholly convinced.

"_But you've felt it, haven't you?"_ Saito retorted. _"You've been watched ever since you returned, and not just by me, or other branches of the government. They were waiting – we were all waiting – for you to make a move. But then you settled down, making no move to renew your old contacts –"_

"_I have paid my dues! I have the right to live an ordinary life!"_

"_You cannot be so naïve. For killers such as you and I, there is no such thing."_

There was a long, long silence. In the background, the sounds of the street market continued: loud, calling voices, laughter and shouting and cheer.

"_No,"_ Himura said finally. _"I will have no part in this. Hitokiri Battousai is dead; I am Himura Kenshin."_

Okubo's stomach clenched. What would become of Japan, if Himura would not take up arms against Shishio? There was no one else left, no one who could possibly match the madman's strength…

"_So,"_ Saito said darkly._ "You would run from your past, hide yourself in this pretence of meek domesticity."_ He laughed. _"Watch your back, Battousai. Protect your cozy, ordinary life – if you can."_

There was a brief, fuzzed sound of footsteps as Himura walked away.

"_Well, Okubo-sama,"_ came Saito's sardonic voice, pitched for the wire alone, _"Battousai has refused."_

Then a burst of static, and then a click – and then nothing.

The conversation was over.

* * *

Kenshin walked back to the dojo in a daze, his thoughts endlessly spinning and confused. But when he stepped back into the house to find Kaoru, dressed in her faded, sweat-streaked training clothes, berating a cocky, sneering Yahiko and threatening him with her bokken, he smiled at the rightness of it all.

Laughing, he stepped in between them, knowing full well they would both turn on him.

_This _was his life now.

* * *

A/N - Next chapter: Okubo gets it. 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N – Yes, I know this is short. However, this is the best I've been able to come up with in months. Please read the important author's note at the bottom of the chapter.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken, any of the canon characters, settings or situations. No money or profit was made in the writing of this fic. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Chain-smoking dourly, Saito stood in the shadows across from the Kamiya dojo, his golden eyes gleaming as he watched hitokiri Battousai hang the washing out on the line, pegs clamped between his lips like an efficient, practiced housewife. It was a pleasant, sunny day, and the deluded fool was humming, shuffling his feet to a popular song on the radio.

Look closely enough, though, and you could see that he had a perfect sense of rhythm, and that his balance was always perfectly centred – rather than an awkward, private shuffle, his steps were the perfectly balanced half steps of a kendo master, not a man unsure of his ability to sway in time.

Battousai could hide his quick, lithe agility, disguise his flat, weary eyes, and act the bumbling fool all he liked, but one killer would always recognise another – especially if the hunter was as obsessed with catching the shadow assassin as Saito had been during the Bakumatsu. He'd studied Battousai obsessively, pouring over the slightest reports and rumours, trying to piece together a picture of the assassin –

Young and impressionable, yes, given that he'd ended up in Katsura's hands; but what Saito had not expected was the genuine lack of excitement, bravado or daredevilry that he would expect from a teenage killer – the assassin was no thrill-seeking boy, in it for his own ego. Nor was he samurai, killing for duty and bushido; no, Hitokiri Battousai had been that rarest and most dangerous of creatures, a genuine idealist.

Unlike his successor, who had been an ambitious predator who saw assassination as his route to power. As he was now, this dulled Battousai would not stand a chance against Shishio's mad determination.

* * *

Kenshin could almost feel Saito's glare burning a hole between his shoulder blades.

Deliberately, he continued to hang the washing out, going about his business as if he were not under close surveillance by a man who had once done his best to kill him, and whom he had done his best to kill in turn. He knew what Saito wanted, knew that the policeman had come seeking Battousai the flat, lethal killer, not Himura the world-weary wanderer.

But he had not been an assassin for a long time, now. More than ten years had passed; he'd gotten older, and changed, and the world had changed around him. He could no more reclaim his younger self than he could turn the world back ten years and undo all that he had learned since he abandoned his edged _katana_.

With age and experience comes wisdom. Though he had lost some of his extraordinary speed, and his killing edge had been dulled by peace and relative complacency, he had gained other things in compensation.

He was not about to sacrifice his hard-won contentment because the government could not clean up after their own dirty work.

Not anymore.

* * *

Hours later, after spending a fruitless day watching Battousai and the small, battered dojo he valued so highly, Saito stood to attention before Okubo's desk. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, long past time for most government workers to knock off, but the Minister was still hard at work. Shishio was only one of the urgent threats faced by the fledgling regime; Saigo's rebellion had left Japan reeling, and the aftershocks of the uprising were still making themselves felt.

"Well, Saito?" Okubo asked, frowning heavily as he tapped his pen against the desk. "Did you change his mind?"

"No," Saito said shortly. "He still holds to his vow."

The tall, powerful Minister made a disgusted noise. "He always was a noble fool. Well then," he continued, "what will it take to convince him?"

Slowly, Saito shook his head, his mind on the strange complexities of an idealistic assassin. "You can't buy him with money or power," he said, almost under his breath. "He simply doesn't value such things. The only way is to appeal to his idealism, and convince him that Shishio's defeat is worth dying – and even killing – for."

There was a long, thoughtful silence as Okubo considered this advice. "I did not know him," he said, "not really. I didn't understand what drove him, or what he fought and killed for. Katsura was the only one he answered to." Slowly, he trailed off, his eyes distant and unreadable. Katsura had been the only one Shishio answered to, and he had shown no hesitation in ordering his demise.

"I know him," Saito said confidently. "I know what he values – his peaceful, safe, happy little world, where he can pretend that he is no longer a killer; he will fight to protect that. If I push him, threaten him, his true nature will come to the fore…"

Okubo did not hesitate. "Go, then," he said. "Do it."

Saito saluted, his eyes burning with anticipation.

It was time to resurrect the hitokiri.

* * *

Important Announcement – Unfortunately, due to time constraints and lack of inspiration, I will not be continuing this fic, Veteran, or Gai-Jin. My thanks to all those who reviewed these three stories in the past, and apologies to any disappointed fans. 


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